


Even If There Are Monsters

by lastdream



Series: Revolutionary Vampires [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Canon Era, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastdream/pseuds/lastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel ficlets for A Little Bit of Truth</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title still from Dracula: “The world seems full of good men— even if there are monsters in it.”

“That you belong to Saint-Just does not necessitate your agreement with every one of his ideas,” says a voice behind Enjolras. The whisper of paranoia makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and it is an effort not to freeze before he turns around to face the speaker. Enjolras knows that he had been quoting Saint-Just in class; this is likely to what the other student is referring. 

“I have always belonged to Saint-Just’s school of thought,” Enjolras responds flatly.

“Perhaps,” the student says cryptically. He is almost as tall as Enjolras, brown-haired, bespectacled, and soft-spoken. His calm voice is a gentle persuasion to listen to his words. “I merely wondered whether you had chosen his theory before or after he chose you.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” Enjolras says carefully. “Saint-Just was dead long before I was born.”

“If you insist.” The other student would seem quite impassive but for the little twitch at the corner of his mouth. It is almost certain that he knows something he ought not, but Enjolras has not the tact to find out what it is. This frustrates him endlessly.

“Who are you?” Enjolras asks, rather unkindly.

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself, especially to a young one like you.” Enjolras feels briefly indignant that his age has been mistaken again, but then the other continues. “My name is Combeferre, and I belong to Descartes.”

“It is interesting that you choose a school of thought that allows only for thought,” Enjolras says. He is caging still, because he cannot be certain that he has rightly understood this Combeferre.

“I chose him because rationalism was like the dawn upon my mind. We have not spoken for some time, because I feel there is a need for action.” Incongruously, Combeferre smiles. It shows his teeth, and Enjolras knows that he was correct.

“If you feel a need for action, why do you criticize me? You must know that I have seen— and enacted— the Revolution.”

“I do not criticize, I correct. Revolution, yes. Revolution, but civilization. As I have parted from Descartes, so may you part from Saint-Just.” Enjolras shakes his head.

“The guillotine parts me from Saint-Just,” he says. 

“Even without belonging, you need not be alone,” Combeferre tells him with a soft, kind look in his eyes. From that moment on they are the most fast of friends. It is less than a week before Enjolras takes residence in Combeferre’s rooms, and less than a day thereafter before they speak openly about what they are and where they come from. By the end of the month, it is as though they have always known each other.


	2. Chapter 2

There are, however, still secrets between them. They have been together two months when the hunger takes Enjolras so badly that he cannot move from bed for fear of losing himself. He snarls and scratches at himself and cannot control his teeth for anything. He knows what he is desperate for, and he sobs with shame that he cannot stop himself from wanting it.

Combeferre hears his broken, despairing cries.

“Enjolras?” he asks. “Enjolras, are you hurt? Are you—” He stops and chuckles a little.

“What are you laughing at?” Enjolras hisses. His jaw is clenched.

“Why, you are only thirsty! There is an easy enough remedy for that. I only wonder how you have gotten into such a state.” Combeferre is taking this agony lightly, belittling the shame of this desire— this need. It makes Enjolras furious.

“Easy!” he cries, leaping from the bed to push Combeferre to the floor. It is hard to speak with his teeth obstructing his tongue and biting into his lip when he forgets caution. “What do you find so easy in torturing another being?”

“Yes, I say easy,” Combeferre says, as calm as ever. Enjolras seethes but allows him to speak. “We need little enough to remain hale, and we do no damage that cannot be undone. It is night, now. Come with me and I will show you.” Finally, Enjolras withdraws, ashamed of his ferocity.

Combeferre guides him through the dark streets and alleyways until they come upon a lone girl, young but not frail. Enjolras waits in the shadows while Combeferre approaches. His body is thrumming with anticipation and thirst, but he keeps his eyes on Combeferre.

“Hello, mademoiselle,” he says with a steady voice and eyes that seem to gleam in the darkness.

“Hello, monsieur,” she says. She is very calm for a girl who has just encountered a strange man in the dark, Enjolras thinks.

“Come here, Enjolras,” Combeferre says. “I have calmed her, but now you must try. Speak to soothe her with your power and then take what you need.”

Enjolras knows the power of which Combeferre speaks; Saint-Just had tried to teach him as well. “Hello, mademoiselle,” he attempts, just as Combeferre had.

“Hello, monsieur,” she returns again, but it is not the same kind of dreamy calm as she had had before. Enjolras tries to put what power he has into his voice, and speaks again.

“Come here, mademoiselle,” he says as gently as he can. She takes a stumbling step forward, but as he reaches for her, her eyes clear and she opens her mouth in a loud, terrified scream.

“Hush,” Combeferre says forcefully, and she quiets at once. “Perhaps you lack the gift,” he says to Enjolras. 

Enjolras cannot resist any longer; he takes the girl by the shoulders and pulls her towards himself. Her neck is already bare in a concession to the summer heat, and he sets his teeth at her vein. He is too thirsty not to pierce her flesh.

Instantly she screams and fights, and Combeferre forces her to calm. Even as Enjolras swallows down rich, satisfying blood, he wants to vomit at his actions. With every mouthful she renews her fight and Combeferre must soothe her again, until at last she is too overwhelmed by his power to struggle. 

Enjolras feels her tears of agony soak into the collar of his coat, but he cannot stop himself from drinking.

Instead, he cries his own hot tears of shame.

When he is done, he tells Combeferre, “I do not think I can feed alone again. Their pain is too much for me.”

Combeferre puts a hand on his shoulder. “You will not have to.”

It becomes a routine: when the thirst becomes more than Enjolras can manage, Combeferre will find a victim, and Enjolras will feed, and then Combeferre will close the wounds. Even this way he can barely stomach the blood, but without it he would die, and that is no longer an option.


	3. Chapter 3

Death is not an option, because the Revolution is coming. Enjolras can feel it in his bones, in his teeth.

Combeferre finds a bright, laughing boy who follows their ideas, and is quick to take possession of him. The boy’s name is Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is closer to Combeferre because he belongs to him, but both of them are like family to Enjolras. They are dear to him as no one has been since before Saint-Just was taken from him.

Courfeyrac collects a motley assortment of friends from school who follow their ideas, and brings them to a cafe where they can meet once the sun has dropped behind the tall buildings. Enjolras teaches and preaches and loves them all fiercely, even Grantaire who never seems to show the passion Courfeyrac claims he is capable of.

Enjolras still feeds but rarely, and never on his own. Courfeyrac is even better at calming a victim than Combeferre.

Les Amis have been meeting for a few months when Courfeyrac comes to speak to Enjolras because Combeferre is out. He is curious, as he always is, about what he has become. His questions are endless, and most of them Enjolras does not expect. He never thought to ask them himself. Finally, there is a question he does expect, and does not know how to answer.

“Why is there no one who belongs to you?” Courfeyrac asks.

“We choose those whom we love, and who love us in return,” he answers, and he knows it is not an explanation.

“Any of Les Amis could be that,” Courfeyrac says.

“We choose those who are like us, and who follow what we believe.”

Courfeyrac continues to stare at him, as though waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“Any of Les Amis could be that,” he repeats. Enjolras is not sure that this is true. The one he most wants to take possession of is one he cannot have, by his own explanation— the one he wants spurns all his beliefs. He does not answer Courfeyrac, so Courfeyrac redirects the subject.

“You have said that you take possession of those whom you love. It follows, then, that Combeferre must love me, because I belong to him?”

“He has chosen you,” Enjolras agrees.

“Does he— could he be persuaded to— to be Greek? With me?” Courfeyrac sounds tentative as he has never been.

“I do not understand,” Enjolras says, feeling as though he should. Courfeyrac’s discomfort eases a little as he laughs weakly at Enjolras.

“Do you not? Have you not read Catullus?”

“I have, though he is Latin.”

“But the matter is the same.” Courfeyrac has a little flush growing under his skin— he is young, and can still manage that. Enjolras cannot, but he feels that he would, once he understands.

“That is— it is not something I have discussed with him. Perhaps you ought to do so yourself,” Enjolras says awkwardly. Courfeyrac smiles a little and nods and then the conversation is over.

The next night, Enjolras comes home and promptly leaves again when he hears the two of them discussing it loudly and with great energy.


	4. Chapter 4

They discover more of their kind at a meeting not long after that. Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are sitting at the table in the back of the Musain when Bahorel stumbles in, covered in blood and bruises and clutching at his side. They get to their feet instantly and move to help him, but the help he needs is not theirs. Jehan follows only a moment behind. 

“That was too many, even for you,” Jehan says gently to Bahorel, looking furtively up at the others in the room. “Come here.”

As Enjolras watches, Jehan pulls Bahorel into a seat, maneuvering him so that Bahorel’s head is slumped onto his shoulder. Bahorel relaxes almost instantly, but Jehan sits very, very still, and he is biting his lip to hold in a pained sound. Enjolras tilts his head, glances at Combeferre, and understands.

“Will that be enough for him?” Enjolras asks Jehan. Jehan’s eyes become as cold as ice until he sees Enjolras’s teeth, only just barely revealed.

“He belongs to me. What he takes from me is more than mere blood.” They are silent as Bahorel drinks, but when he sits up and wipes his mouth, Combeferre can no longer restrain his interest.

“How was I oblivious to this? Where are you from?” he asks them both. “How old are you?"

“Older than I look, but as French as I seem,” answers Bahorel. He leaves to get a drink from the bar.

“I belong to Juvenal,” is all Jehan offers. Courfeyrac is smiling and looking a little dazed.

“What a circumstance,” he exclaims, “to be friends with two of our kind even before I was one myself!”

“Then you must be quite young,” says Jehan. “I imagine you belong to Combeferre?”

“Oh yes.” Courfeyrac smirks in a way that indicates he is about to boast of his physical belonging. Enjolras cuts him off to prevent this.

“Are all our friends like us?”

“Oh no,” Jehan says, smiling. "The others are quite ordinary, though Bossuet knows what we are. He had the mischance to come across Bahorel in a great thirst.” He pauses and seems to consider. “Joly and the lady Musichetta probably know as well, by their association.”

“And Feuilly and Grantaire?” Enjolras is careful not to put any more emphasis on Grantaire’s name than is natural.

“I do not know,” Jehan begins.

“Are we talking about R?” asks Bahorel, returning with his drink. “Best fighter I know who isn’t like us.”

Bahorel goes on for a few minutes in this vein, and Enjolras learns more than he has ever known about the man he loves most. He is ashamed to see how much he had not known, but he only wants to take possession of him all the more.


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras is resting at home with Combeferre after the carefully-shaded trek from school when Courfeyrac bursts in, faintly smoking from the sun. Clutched to his side is a bloody, trembling mess. Combeferre starts toward him with concern.

“Courfeyrac?”

“I swear this was not my intention, but he was going to die—“ Courfeyrac lays what appears to be a young man down on the floor. The man is pale and shaking, and there are traces of Courfeyrac’s blood around his mouth.

“What have you done?” Enjolras asks.

“You have saved this boy’s life, and now he belongs to you,” says Combeferre hollowly. Courfeyrac’s head jerks up.

“I have to look after him, but he is not— I still belong to you, Combeferre.”

Enjolras respectfully averts his eyes as Combeferre kisses Courfeyrac deeply. When he looks back, they both seem satisfied. Then they turn their attention to the young man who is just beginning to regain consciousness.

“Where am I?” he asks with a groan. His tongue touches his teeth and he seems frightened.

“You were attacked,” Courfeyrac explains. “I brought you home with me, and I saved you. What is your name?”

“Baron Marius Pontmercy.” Enjolras opens his mouth only to find it blocked by Combeferre’s hand. Marius adds, “I’m thirsty.”

“That is to be expected,” Combeferre says gently. “Courfeyrac, allow me.” Courfeyrac moves aside, allowing Combeferre to kneel beside Marius. Combeferre pushes up his sleeve, bites into his own wrist, and offers it to him. Marius looks horrified, and thirsty.

“What are you doing?” he exclaims.

“Relax. This is how you must feed, now. You ought to have been asked, but Courfeyrac can be forgiven for his hasty actions. This is his recompense, that your first drink be from me rather than him.”

Slowly, Marius reaches a hand up and touches his own mouth, feeling the sharp teeth and the growing thirst. Enjolras watches him mouth the word culture has recently ascribed to their kind. At last he reaches for Combeferre’s wrist and drinks.

When he is done they explain to him what he is and how he must live, and he accepts it with an endearing kind of stoicism. He is more shocked when Courfeyrac deems it necessary to inform the boy who belongs to him that he himself belongs to Combeferre, and to enumerate the ways thereof. Eventually he stops spluttering, but he still looks askance at the man who has possession of him.

A few weeks later, when Marius has adjusted to what he must be now (and stopped referring to himself as a Baron in Enjolras’s earshot), Courfeyrac suggests that he tag along to the meetings of Les Amis. With some reservation, Enjolras agrees. It is as much for Combeferre’s sake as Marius’s— he hopes that if Marius cultivates a larger group of friends it will help to ease the strain between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He only hopes Marius will be tactful with his political views.

Enjolras is almost unsurprised when Marius manages to name both their kind and the former Emperor in the same speech.


	6. Chapter 6

It is entirely Courfeyrac’s fault that Enjolras arrives at the meeting still half-intoxicated with blood. Courfeyrac has proved even better at calming victims than Combeferre—though Combeferre is better at sealing wounds— and it is a talent he uses to full advantage. Often this merely means long nights and well-filled veins, but today the drink is remarkably extravagant. Today is Bastille Day: the only date Enjolras will name when asked when he was born.

It is half true; it was the day Saint-Just took possession of the young idealistic boy and made him a revolutionary.

In any case he is making his speech before Les Amis with another’s blood coursing through his veins, and he can feel the way it makes him flush and speak with nearly manic energy. He knows he is attractive, so he hopes the flush will make him seem passionate and captivating rather than feverish.

Grantaire looks captivated, though Enjolras does not know if it is for the same reason that Grantaire captivates him.

Joly is also paying close attention. He keeps his silence, however, until Enjolras is finished speaking and Les Amis begin to talk amongst themselves. Then he pulls Enjolras over to his table and begins to examine him minutely.

“You must tell me what is wrong with you, my friend,” Joly frets, laying a wrist on Enjolras’s forehead to feel his temperature. “You look as though you have a fever, but you are in fact chilly to the touch— and yet neither are you clammy. I fear there may be something seriously wrong with you.”

Enjolras attempts to twist his face, built for righteous fury and disdain, into an expression that is reassuring. He is not sure he succeeds.

“I am well, my friend. I have merely… had rather a lot to drink.” It was almost easy to drink deeply when Courfeyrac could convince a victim to hold quite still during the act.

“You do not smell as though you have been drinking,” Grantaire says, speaking from the other side of the small table for the first time. He sounds perplexed and accusing, believing Enjolras to have lied but not quite believing Enjolras capable of the deception.

“It was not wine I drank,” Enjolras replies, with a contemptuous glance at the bottle held in Grantaire’s hand. He turns instead to Joly. “Jehan tells me you know of his—“ Enjolras hesitates, not knowing how to describe their kind obliquely. “—condition?”

Joly’s eyes widen. “Yes,” he says, glancing at Bossuet as though checking the veracity of what his lover had probably told him.

“I share it.” He takes a moment to turn his head and glare good-naturedly in Courfeyrac’s direction. “And my friends insisted I take more than usual, in honor of the day.”

“Ah, I understand. Mustn’t explain your troubling health concerns as old R can hear. He cares so little for the world that it won’t bother him to hear that the Chief and the Poet both may fall. He’ll go on drinking his wine as they crumble into dust to nurse the grapes again, and then he’ll drink what’s left of them without thinking twice, I suppose.”

“Grantaire, I did not mean—“ Enjolras takes a long breath to steady himself. He often feels like Grantaire has knocked his feet out from under him, but the bitterness in his voice rarely stings this acutely. “We are well, I promise.”

“Well enough to worry a doctor and and obfuscate with your acquaintances; you must be in perfect health.”

“You are my friend, Grantaire. I have never lied to you nor concealed any part of the truth by choice. We are well.” 

To this Grantaire has no answer.


	7. Chapter 7

Marius has been attending the meetings of Les Amis off and on for nearly a year. He has been off more often than on, recently, because he has fallen in love with an angel in the park, or so he tries to explain as Courfeyrac encourages and the rest of them tease. They enjoy the teasing, even though they have come to expect all of the answers he can give.

They have all been together long enough, now, that all of them have fallen into patterns. There is nothing any of them does that comes as a real surprise anymore. Feuilly enjoys this more than he would have expected to.

He has spent so long alone that he delights in the rhythms of their little family.

The rhythms go like this:

Feuilly will wake before the sun rises to work at the factory until the early afternoon. Then he will return to his room for the artistry that seems too delicate for his working hands—his elegant fans, which will earn him enough to buy books to educate himself. In the early evening, he will walk to the Musain. It is a longer walk than to the Corinthe, but the others are students, so they will remain nearer the Latin Quarter if they can.

When Feuilly walks through the door the first person to greet him will be Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac will be in the middle of some tale of debauchery that will either make Combeferre drop his eyes or look quite smug, but he will pause and wave to Feuilly nonetheless. Feuilly will wave back and take a seat at Bahorel and Jehan’s table, because it will be the only one left. 

Feuilly will not be late, but the others—largely not having to work—will have arrived early. They depend on each other more than they ought, probably.

Jehan will immediately demand Feuilly’s opinion on a piece he is working on, and it will stir Feuilly’s heart with joy or sorrow exactly as Jehan intends. Bahorel will be watching Courfeyrac tell his tales, but he will blink rapidly and rub at a bit of dust in his eye as Jehan declaims.

At Joly and Bossuet’s table, Grantaire will have already finished a bottle of wine or more, and will be sketching absently on a bit of paper. They will all pretend the face he is drawing does not belong to Enjolras. After a while Bossuet will call Louison to get a second bottle for Grantaire, after which his mood will improve significantly. Feuilly will join in the laughter at puns that only work because Joly has a head cold.

If Marius is there, they will tease him mercilessly and ask him if he has discovered where Ursule lives. He will say that he has not, but that she looked at him with such tenderness, just yesterday, that he is sure she feels for him as well. They will all wish to tell him how courtship works, but little they say will sway the stubborn boy.

Without any signal, the room will eventually still to a respectful hush, and then Enjolras will stand. He will blaze with his belief and they will all be set aflame.

Grantaire will poke holes in Enjolras’s ideals until they have been sealed up tighter than the planks of a warship. 

Feuilly and Combeferre will make their arguments as well, broadening Enjolras’s focus until he looks beyond Paris and France and takes into his vast heart the whole of mankind.

They will discuss practical matters of the Revolution until they have exhausted the store of information available to them that day.

When the meeting is over, none of them will leave. They will talk and drink and laugh. Sometimes, Enjolras will be as flushed as the rest of them, though no one will have seen him take a drink. It will only affect him thus a couple of times a month, and oftentimes it will barely be noticeable. If anyone asks, Enjolras will cryptically reference the condition that he and Jehan share.

When this happens, Feuilly will sigh deeply and rub at his temples. Everyone will know that Enjolras is a vampire, but they will politely ignore this, because he seems to put so much effort into the euphemisms he comes up with.


End file.
